The old creamery was ghost silent—ghosts and cats, that is.

The creamery no longer echoed with the calls of lowing cattle nor fumed with the odor of stale milk, for the building had been bought and turned into the Creamery Distillery, purveyor of a popular cream liqueur. Now business was conducted more sedately amid a disorienting maze of pipes, boilers, and copper and steel distilling columns that turned raw vegetable mash into drinks that tickled the palate and warmed the blood. 

The owners often worked late, but even they went home at some point. Harry and Ester alone remained, working the night shift. Mackerel tabbies, they prowled the wooden beams on quiet cat feet or snoozed on top of barrels of the Creamery's finest, exposing their fuzzy bellies as the silent chemistry worked in the wooden casks to smooth and mellow the brew.

Tonight, there was noise.

In one dark corner, behind sacks of potatoes, a wooden plug in the floor had once been nailed down with strips of iron. Over time, the iron had rusted until it was tissue thin, and tonight it was weakened just enough. The plug creaked and heaved, and the strips broke as a hairy little clawed arm thrust its way up into the room. Another arm followed, then a wee boggart jumped up, six inches tall, ugly face scowling, green eyes bright in the dim light. He crept curiously among the bunged casks and stoppered bottles; he loved to curdle milk, but here it was already curdled in a way. He seized a bottle of cream liqueur from rows on a shelf, pulled the plastic cork and sniffed suspiciously, then grinned and drank it all, the white fluid bubbling as his greedy gullet gulped and gulped!

The boggart almost toppled from the tipple, but soon righted himself. He tossed the empty bottle aside with a smash and grabbed another, ready to drink away a year’s worth of the distillery’s labor in a single night.

But in the darkness, two pairs of yellow eyes watched with a predator’s intensity. Harry reacted first; perched on a stack of casks, he crouched down, swaying his hips as he judged his trajectory, then he leaped into the darkness, fangs gleaming and claws out...

The boggart was ripping the wax and cork from another bottle as the dark-grey shape struck its back! “Gerroff!” he cried as he felt the claws sinking into his tough skin, and he struck around with the bottle, knocking Harry across the wooden floor and splashing liqueur. Harry wound up on his back with a streak of cream on his chest, which he licked with annoyance for a moment before he jumped up, ready to pursue.

Meanwhile, the boggart rounded a stack of crates, clutching the leaking bottle and looking for a quiet place to finish it off. But he could sense no place to truly [i]hide,[/i] anywhere! He was somehow being watched from all angles and it wasn’t just the cats!

And above, another grim dark shape was wiggling its tail... Ester pounced on the boggart’s chest, bowling the howling sprite backward and knocking his prize away. Green scowling eyes stared up into bright yellow eyes, slit pupils wide in the darkness.

The boggart groaned. Feline magic was as old as fae and these mousers knew their business; there were no easy pickings to be had here. [i]“Nách mór an diabhal thú!” [/i]he screamed as he dodged Ester’s bite and squirmed from under those sharp claws. Pursued by thudding paws, he struggled through a maze of pipes,  dashed back for the hole and leaped down through it, pulling the wooden plug shut behind him just in time.

The dark silent shapes sniffed around the plug, then padded away to make the rounds for mice.


The next day, snoozing Ester was suddenly picked up by human hands. “Mrrau?” she complained gently.

“Look at this mess, Ester!” said her owner, shoving her face at the broken bottles and puddles of dried cream. “Did you and Harry knock them over? Or was it a huge rat?” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, I’ve got a mess to clean up before we start today. I’ll check the security cameras later.” 

He scritched her head and set her down. She stretched, yawned, and ran out the door to the bar and counter where customers were already trickling in, joining Harry in curling between their ankles and receiving pettings, another day on the job for a pair of working cats.